It gets stranger in the night,
a time of cold, suspended sight.
the nub of my wrist in your strong embrace,
and the taste of summer rain.
We burn by the candle's wick,
drown in the swirling intrigue.
You hold me by the nape of my neck
and fear chokes my gullet.
Strangers love like stowaways,
hungry and funny by turns.
Hysterical. The red is from the wine.
Oh, but some of it is mine.
I bear no scars from secret trysts;
I play well known outsider's tricks.
I go where strange friendships are found,
and return like clay, unmade.
Break your own heart and mourn it well;
the love of self is a lesson in hell.
And tortured souls arrive at the place,
none too soon and a little too late.
